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“You’re not. No more worrying. They’ll only bother you for another drink from now on.”
“Thank you.” He turns up the last of his whisky and I’ve only taken a few sips of mine. We need more time together.
I get up to collect his glass. “You need a refill.”
“No, thank you. I must be going. I have court early in the morning.”
I walk him to the door the way any good hostess would. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I smile sheepishly, flirtatious, just the way I intend. He needs to see a side of me other than the tough girl who can throw a punch.
“Maybe.” If you’re lucky. Those are the words I imagine when I see the grin that spreads across his face.
I stand in the doorway and watch him go to his car. “Good luck on your case,” I call out.
He gives me a smile and a nod. And then he’s gone.
The first thing I do once I’m alone is study my flat. I’m certain he scoured the place while he was here but for some reason, I want confirmation. I need it.
It only takes a couple minutes for me to notice the only deviation. A picture frame holding a photograph of me is missing from the bookcase. That’s not what I was expecting.
How peculiar. He doesn’t need that photograph to run a facial recognition analysis. Any of his grunts could’ve taken my picture if he’d ordered them to. The FBI consistently wipes any trace of the true Bleu MacAllister from the Web so the only one he’ll find is the identity Harry and I created.
Nothing else is out of place, although he snooped through my things. That’s fine—I was prepared for such. All the appropriate measures have been set into motion. There isn’t a single thing out of place in this carefully orchestrated life I’m living, so I’m certain Sinclair and I will be removing any trust issues between us sooner rather than later.
It isn’t call day but I want to talk to Harry. This is so much harder than I imagined. I need to hear a comforting voice.
I’m not certain the flat hasn’t been bugged since last night so I take a walk and use my burner to phone my dad. I assure him all is well before I tell him about tonight’s events. “Sinclair was in my apartment when I came home tonight.”
“Does that surprise you?” His voice is steady, without alarm—exactly what I need to hear.
“Not a bit.”
“Good. I’d be worried if it did. I hope you put on a good front.”
“A bang-up job, as always.”
“Perfect. This is good; it means he’s investigating you. We knew he would. It’s always best to get it out of the way early so you can move into the trust phase. I assume everything was in place?”
“Of course.”
“Good job, girlie.” I still love hearing Harry’s praise.
“How did he explain being in your apartment?”
Uh-oh. Here we go. “He said he was inviting himself inside since I didn’t the previous night.”
“What the hell was he doing at your place the night before?”
“Relax. He drove me home after work, but I turned him away at the door.”
“He’s going to try to get you into bed.” Harry’s voice isn’t so calm now. “You know that, right?”
“I completely expect him to try.” No way I’m telling him about Sinclair taking the photograph. He’ll freak.
“I know how badly you want this but don’t compromise yourself in the process. It isn’t worth it. I’ve seen it happen in the field a hundred times. Believe me when I say you’ll hate yourself afterward.” He trained me to be a killer, yet he still sees me as an innocent little girl.
“No worries, Dad. I’m not going to give myself to a Breckenridge. They’ve taken enough of me already.” I hate lying to Harry but I can never tell him the truth. He’d be furious if he knew what I was planning.
“Sometimes being strong is about following your heart. There’s no shame in not going through with this. If at any point you want to stop and come home, don’t hesitate. We’ll never speak of it again.”
That’s my plan—to never speak of it again, but only after the job is done.
Chapter Four
Sinclair Breckenridge
I recline in my desk chair and study the photograph I took from Bleu’s flat. It seems fairly current since her appearance is relatively the same, with the exception of her hair length. It’s a few inches shorter in the picture. I’m guessing this was likely taken several months ago.
She’s standing by a business front and the writing on the glass reads Bleu Mac’s Photography. I do an Internet search for her business and its demographics, quickly finding her website and all the social media she uses. By all appearances, she seems to have a thriving business, so it seems unlikely that she’d go along with being plucked from her livelihood to come here and pose as an impostor for any of our rivals.
Unlikely, but not impossible—if they’re paying her enough.
If she was selected by our adversary to invade the brotherhood, they chose poorly. They should’ve gone with a woman willing to go to bed with the brothers. This one doesn’t budge an inch. She has respect for herself and body and expects those around her to as well.
Bleu’s story holds water with me for now. I’ll allow her to continue working at the whisky bar unless she gives me reason to suspect she’s anything other than what she claims to be. I’ll personally monitor her and won’t hesitate to immediately extract the lass if I suspect a problem.
I place a call to Seamus so I can make good on the promise I made to Bleu. “Aye, boss?”
“There’s a new lass working at Leith’s. An American.”
“I know the one you’re talking about.” I’m not surprised he’s already aware of her presence. I would expect my men to talk about a fit lass like Miss MacAllister.
“No one’s to touch her. Anyone who does risks losing his hand.” My men know I don’t put out warnings unless I mean them.
“Got it, boss. Will that be all?”
The further the girls allow the men to go, the better their gratuity is at the end of the evening. I know how these things go. It’s not as though I haven’t seen the girls getting fucked against the building in the back alley to ensure a good tip at the end of the night. “Make sure the brothers understand that she’s hands off but that doesn’t decrease her tips. Encourage them to be … generous.”
“Aye, sir.”
I end the call and examine the photograph of Bleu. I’m not sure why I took it. It has no place in this office, yet I don’t want to put it in the drawer. I want to be able to see it.
I place it on the corner of my desk. It looks strange and feels out of place. I’ve never had a photo of a woman within the four walls of my office—not even one of my own mother—but I admit it’s a beautiful first. I could get used to looking at her.
* * *
I don’t have to weigh my options of home versus Duncan’s when I leave the firm. I want to see how work is going for the bar’s new wench since my orders to the brothers to keep their hands off.
I sit at the table everyone knows belongs to the trifecta—me, Leith, and Jamie. Lorna notices me and immediately comes over, ready to take my drink order. “What’s it going to be this evening?”
“I want the American to be my barmaid.”
She looks at the station where Bleu loads a tray with drinks. “She already has a full load.”
“It’s not a fucking request, Lorna. But since you were stupid enough to argue instead of doing as I say, you can take all her tables and yours while she only serves me.”
I look at Lorna, daring her to do anything but agree. “As you wish.”
“Damn right. And she still gets her tips. All of them.”
“Of course, Sin. Anything you say.”
Bleu comes to my table after she’s relieved of the tray of drinks. “Lorna says I’m your personal server and she’s going to take all my tables.”
“That’s right.”
“Why?” Her expression is confused. She h
as no idea I can make anyone in this place do whatever I demand, whenever I like.
“Because it’s what I want.”
She looks around, worried. “Is Leith going to be okay with this? I’m here to serve customers—plural, not singular. I don’t want to make him angry and end up fired. I’m earning good money here.”
“The tips have been generous?”
“Yes, remarkably so.”
Good. The brotherhood listened. I’d expect no less. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“What can I get for you?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
I can see I’ve bewildered her further. And I thoroughly enjoy it. “I can’t have anything. I’m on the clock.”
“I want to buy you a drink, so choose what you’d like and I’ll have the same.”
She smirks. “Whatever you say.”
A few minutes later she returns with two girlie drinks and pushes one my way. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”
She’s grinning. “It’s sex on the beach.”
“You brought me a drink with a slice of pineapple and a fucking flower in it?”
“You told me to choose something for myself and you’d have the same. This is what I wanted.”
“I expected you to have a whisky.”
“I wanted to have sex on the beach. I thought you’d enjoy it as well.” She’s grinning bigger, probably feeling quite clever.
